


Useless

by phipiohsum475



Series: Serial Suicides [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Prescription Drug Overdose, Suicide, Suicide Attempts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 02:17:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2604926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If you were smarter, if you were better, if you were as brilliant as you think you are, this wouldn’t be happening.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Useless

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING - There is major depression and suicide in this fic. Please don't read if this bothers you. I like you, and I want you to be okay.
> 
> Not betaed nor britpicked. Feel free to (kindly!) point out my errors!

Sherlock stared blankly into the back of the sofa, curled loosely to prevent his long legs from hanging over the edge, dressing gown draped haphazardly over his too thin form. He tried to engage his mind, entering his mind palace, only to find himself in a grayish room with one lone grayish sofa, unremarkable in texture, in sturdiness, softness or any quality. Every item seemed specially designed to be unexceptional and without character. So mind palace Sherlock, like his living, breathing counterpart flopped down on the dull sofa, and stared blankly into its back. For once, his mind and his body coalesced, into one, droningly dull existence, blank and void.

A hand shook him out of his reverie. “Been here all day, you lazy git?” John asked, with affectionate annoyance. “You’re just bloody useless when you’re not a case, aren’t you?” John huffed a quiet chuckle as he toed off his shoes.

_Useless. That’s the word_ , Sherlock thought _, that’s what I am_. He considered rolling over, to face out into the room, to see the clear evidence of his worthlessness, but he found the effort too exerting, and thus remained dead eyed and vacuous as he stared past the sofa cushion into the nothingness of his own mind.

-o-

Sherlock awoke from his stupor, unclear as to whether or not he’d actually been asleep, when John shook him again, hard this time. “Have you even moved yet, you big lump?” John teased.

Sherlock answered with a minute shake of his head.

“Far as I can tell, you’ve been laying there for a good sixteen hours. You’ve got to move.”

Sherlock shook his head more definitively this time.

“Nope, not a question.” John slid his arms underneath Sherlock’s and picked him up to a sitting position. “You’ve got to use the toilets, at least.”

At the mentioned, Sherlock recognized, yes, his bladder was fit to burst. He struggled to stand; taking John’s proffered assistance, and walked drearily to the bathroom to relieve himself.

When he exited, John caught him before he disappeared to his room, to face the void from his bed, to avoid the cramping he distantly felt in his legs. John directed him to the kitchen, where he forced Sherlock to sit. He pointed to a plate and bowl that had appeared in his brief absence.

“Toast and chicken noodle soup. You need to eat something, and you can’t use the ‘case’ excuse.” Though John smiled, Sherlock could see the stern set to his eyes, and knew fighting John on his matter would be more exhausting than compliance.

_Useless_ , he thought again, _too useless to eat. A burden on John. Useless. John would be better off if I were dead_.

-o-

Sherlock knew, of course he did. In his mind, he checked off the boxes, the list of symptoms that always accompanied his bouts of depression. It angered him, when his illness retreated, because for a man whose mind was his greatest treasure, a phenomenal resource, to be betrayed by it in this manner was excruciating. But in the midst of his illness, the anger dissipated to emptiness, to an irrational but overwhelming refrain of “ _If you were smarter, if you were better, if you were as brilliant as you think you are, this wouldn’t be happening.”_

Sherlock wondered if this would be the time he was successful. Each prior descent into his depression was only recognized and treated after an attempt on his own life. Three times now he’d tried desperately to quell the bitter slander that echoed ceaselessly in any and every room of his mind palace, once as an adolescent (an interrupted hanging from an old oak in the back yard), in college (at the end of a needle), and the day he met Lestrade (his own attempt was overshadowed by his witness to a murder). Three times, Mycroft forced him to acknowledge his illness, and accept the assistance he needed, usually with a great, magnificent bribe, the most recent of which was convincing the Met that an unofficial, consulting detective didn’t need to follow the strict consultant protocols upon which they typically insisted.

In his current state, Mycroft’s meddling further spurned the vile self-hatred, spewing from speakers into each crevice of his mind, completely inescapable. _Useless. Dependent. Pathetic._

He wondered how he’d escape this time, and if he would succeed.

-o-

John went to work, setting tea and sandwiches out for Sherlock. “You don’t even need to make anything; it’s all just ready for you. Please eat something while I’m out,” John ruffled his curls good naturedly, “And don’t destroy anything. I can’t afford another hundred quid to Mrs. Hudson for damages!”

Once the door to the flat shut behind John, Sherlock curled away from the sustenance; the thought of any taste on his tongue repellent; the feel of food in his stomach disgusting. He knew time was drawing to a close; John might notice any day that Sherlock’s behavior didn’t fit his usual sulks, or, more likely, Mycroft would intervene.

He rolled himself to sitting, his robe half hanging off his naked, sallow flesh. He looks at his body, _Awkward_ , whispers a voice. _Gangly_ , whispers another. _Freak_ , a newer voice. They add to the chorus; and it runs round his head: _useless, awkward, dependent, gangly, freak, pathetic, useless, awkward_ ; and the voices don’t stop. Each has its own voice, its own tormentor, and Sherlock can’t shut down the speaker system to his mind palace and there is no escape and there is no doubt that all of these things are true in this moment, in his head. His genius no match for a simple chemical reaction; as broken as a violinist with mangled fingers, a blinded detective, and he’s done and he’s not even angry. Just resigned. All that he once could offer has slipped between his fingers; like sand is impossible to hold underwater.

And he knew now, that he was ready. John was at work; the clinic shift lasts for six more hours. Mrs. Hudson was at some museum tour with Mrs. Turner and her married ones. Three and a half hours left on that. Should he leave the building, Mycroft would be alerted. Sherlock relied on his brain for this one last simple problem, distraught that deliberation is even necessary when the obvious answer reveals itself.

_Propranolol_.

Mrs. Hudson’s newest blood pressure medication refill, picked it up at the pharmacy just days ago. Just one gram is enough to be fatal; her dose is 200 mg daily. Just five days worth could do it; he’ll take double that to be sure. Sherlock knew it was possible to survive a propranolol overdose; but only if caught quickly, with immediate and aggressive medical treatment.

He flounced down to the stairs and picked Mrs. Hudson’s lock. He’s used to it by now; she’s used to it by now; she’d buy a better lock if she cared all that much. He found her medications in the cupboard closest to the refrigerator, rifled through the bottles of vitamins, of herbal soothers, and found the pill bottle he needed.

He shook out the pills that would end the mantra of derision and degrading verbal abuse _; asshole, lunatic, nut job, psycho, pathetic, useless, waste of breath, waste of life, better off dead_. He held the pills in his hands reverently, looking at them with affection; _release, freedom, relief_.

His mouth twitched in something that might have once been a smile, but now just means there is some emotion aside from the constant verbal assaults from his own subconscious, some other emotion that has floated, a single drop of water ascending to the top of a gallon of oil.

In the kitchen, he opened a bottle of twenty-year scotch; once gifted to his for a case; a six; missing pterodactyl skull from a private collection. He poured two fingers, and in a single motion, without a second guess, swallowed the pills with a single gulp.

He snuggled into his chair to await the symptoms of impending death. He categorized them in his head: mild sedation, bradycardia, extreme hypotension, seizures, coma and then, liberation.

-o-

John looked up at his last patient, and his face fell flat with annoyance. “What does it say about me that I’d rather you kidnap me than show up at work?”

Mycroft’s stoic face remained stone cold. “Dr. Watson. I am afraid I have been remiss in discussing a matter of great importance with you. Data I feel you have been missing.”

“Yeah?” John remained unimpressed at Mycroft’s continued ambiguity.

“Imagine, for a moment, that Sherlock were not Sherlock. Imagine he were any other patient. Not a sulky self-described sociopathic genius. But simply, a man. In that context; review Sherlock’s behavior over the last few months.”

Mycroft paused expectantly, and John realized he was being commanded to do so at this moment. He thought about Sherlock’s sulk, his refusal to eat; not moving; not sleeping. His lack of sniping and banter. And the length of said changes; he ran his assessment through the PHQ-9.

“You say he’s a history of this?”

“Devastatingly so.”

“The drugs?”

“And the hanging, and the razor blades.”

“Three attempts?! And no one thought to tell me this?!” John’s voice rose angrily.

“Until recent events, I did not feel that it was my story to relate.”

“Can I get his medical history? If I can get him on anti-depressants we may be able to curtail this before it goes too far.”

Mycroft pulled a file, from where John had no clue, and passed it to John, “You understand, John, that if Sherlock knows I’ve given you this, it will only exacerbate the problem.”

“I’ll keep it under lock and key here.”

“Take care of my brother, Dr. Watson; he hasn’t let me do so in years.”

-o-

When John arrived home, Mrs. Hudson met him grumpily at the door, “You tell that young man to stay out of my flat! Refusing to upgrade my locks isn’t an invitation.”

John smiled, it sounded like Sherlock might be up to his old tricks again. He ascended the staircase, but stopped at the open door. He peered in, and saw Sherlock’s too pale, too rigid body, collapsed on the floor, “Hudson! 999!” he barked, and rushed to Sherlock’s side.

He held his fingers to Sherlock’s pulse point; both the chill of the flesh and lack of palpitation dropped John’s heart into a void; an empty hole and he fell backwards against his own chair, shock overwhelming his senses. Logic told him Sherlock had been dead for at least three hours and his trauma training auto piloted to forgoing the futile life saving measures. Three hours, Sherlock had been unnoticed, long before Mycroft had shown up at his office.

Mycroft.

John dialed, and bit back a sob when the line picked up, “You were too fucking late. We were too bloody late.”

John barely moved as flashing lights, moving bodies, soft voices, black bags, and the tap of an umbrella danced around him, as though he were a single, stationary moment amongst a flutter of movement. He stared at the ground, where Sherlock’s body had been and cursed himself for his ignorance.

_He was useless. Pathetic. How would he live without Sherlock? _How could he not have noticed?_ Useless, worthless, pathetic, dependent. _


End file.
